


Pesante

by frostandcrow



Series: Espansivo [6]
Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: (don’t worry it’s for a case, Featuring: Peter's logophilia, Hurt/Comfort, Juno’s elegant approach to complex philosophical and existential quandaries, M/M, Peter makes a bit of an assonance of himself, Peter’s post-procedural purple prose, abundant alliteration, and flirts shamelessly with a member of his healthcare team, injuries, recovery from anesthesia, who IS Peter Nureyev?, …sorta)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 03:12:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18984055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frostandcrow/pseuds/frostandcrow
Summary: Peter Nureyev comes to terms with being Peter Nureyev. Juno is there to guide him.





	Pesante

**Author's Note:**

> I was not expecting to finish this today, so…happy Memorial Day? Bear with me through this first part, it…gets less purple-y pretty quickly. See End Notes for trigger warnings.

The first thing Peter noticed upon awakening was the aseptic smell and cacophony of voices and beeping machines. He knew that he’d regret opening his eyes as any environment that would engender this combination of sensory input was guaranteed to top it off with harsh fluorescent lighting.

 

He opened his eyes anyway.

 

His groan of disappointment at the banal predicability of reality seemed to draw the attention of the person standing at the computer terminal next to his bed. Unable to stand the brilliance of the luminosity from above him, he closed his eyes before he could discern further details of the person’s appearance beyond their gamboge hair, muscular build, and cordate face. 

 

“Hello, you’re just waking up from surgery. I’m Derev and I’m your nurse while you’re down here in post-op recovery.  How do you feel?”

 

“With my hands, mostly, but I have had occasion to do so with my feet and, on one memorable occasion, the tip of my…nose.” It was difficult to think through the fog lingering in his mind and he couldn’t quite recall the persona he’d cloaked himself in or even why he was in a postoperative recovery room. He mentally dismissed any worry over such quandaries and the possibility of future parapraxis. For the moment, he found eupathy in basking under the attention of this very pulchritudinous—and most likely, very fleeceable—mark. 

 

Such a mark was certainly one of Peter’s favorite types of quarry.  

 

“I…see,” drawled the mark in question. “Well, hold still for a sec, I need to check your blood pressure.” Peter complied, doing his best to stave off his torpor and track the man as he moved around Peter’s recumbent form, checking his vitals and the medication dripping into Peter via an intravenous catheter. 

 

“Can you tell me your name?” Derev queried.

 

“I certainly can. Was there a particular one you had in mind or would any of my names suffice?”

 

“Uh-huh,” he intoned, slowly. To Peter’s dismay, the man failed to look besotted. “Can you tell me where you are right now?”

 

“In a bed, though I use the term quite loosely—you simply _must_ look into locating another mattress distributor because I believe this facility has given their patronage to a manufacture whose specialty is disguising bricks as bedding,” he let out a solicitous chuckle and added, “a _firm_ firm, if you will…I’m sorry my dear, what was the question again?”

 

The man’s smile remained in place, though it gained a stiffness that Peter suspected was borne of impatience. He suddenly ascertained his current situation: supine in bed with the lingering effects of what must have been anesthesia clouding his thoughts and dulling his memory and making his body feel as if it were miles away. It was nice to be pain-free for the first time in…days?…but it came at the cost of adynamia and decreased mental prowess, which, he fretted, was _not_ an ideal tradeoff at the moment. 

 

He needed to stay on Derev’s good side and he needed to recall whatever cover story he was working under and he needed to do so _right now—_

 

Before the inchoate panic could flourish, a man—whose distinct visage Peter didn’t think any amount of post-anesthesia amnesia could obscure from his memory—stepped around the curtained partition. 

 

Peter stopped himself before he could extend a greeting. Was the man even supposed to be there? Was he under an alias as well? Was this part of the plan? What _was_ the plan? 

 

But then he locked his eyes onto the man’s one—bright, sharp, discerning, _beautiful_ —and he knew with an absolute certitude that nothing would go awry. 

 

Juno turned to Derev. “I’m here to take—“ he made a show of glancing at his tablet, “—a Mr Tsar Star upstairs to his room.”

 

“ _Tsar Star_? I applaud the use of an anagram, even one as simplistic as this, but honestly, is that the best _nom de guerre_ we could contrive?”

 

The two men stared at him for a moment.

 

Derev shook his head slightly and then turned back to Juno. “He just got out of surgery. We usually wait until they’re a bit more…coherent before shipping them upstairs.”

 

Juno looked over at Peter dispassionately and replied, “He’s fine.”

 

“And so are _you_.”

 

They ignored him. Peter huffed. 

 

“Look, my orders say to bring Mr Star upstairs. You wanna call my charge nurse and tell her that she’s wrong? ‘Cause the last person who did that ended up working night shifts in ED triage for four weeks straight.” Juno kept his countenance apathetic and Peter couldn’t help but feel pride—and something a mignon more salacious—at watching his Detective con the winsome nurse.

 

Of course, Peter did not need to completely comprehend his current situation in order to complement Juno’s endeavor. “Actually, I do believe that Derev here was in the middle of a quite _thorough_ physical exam, which I am certain that he will perform with admirable supererogation,” Peter coaxed his palpebral musculature into executing a wink at Derev, though it was difficult to assess by the man’s reaction if he was successful in that enterprise. He directed his gaze back to Juno and continued, “So if you could return at a more opportune time..?” Peter tried to lift his left arm—the arm that he somehow knew he’d have the most control over—to flap his hand dismissively at Juno. To his dismay, the limb dropped back to the bed almost as soon as Peter raised it. 

 

Despite his body’s treachery, his effort had it’s intended effect. “Fine,” said Derev without a trace of vacillation, “take him upstairs. He’s your problem now.” 

 

“Always and forever,” Peter chimed in, feeling inexplicably giddy.

 

As Juno perfunctorily disengaged the locking mechanism on the bed, Peter’s sharp hearing allowed him to overhear Derev muttering something along the lines of wishing he’d get one patient—just one!—who didn’t try to hit on him when they were waking up from surgery…

 

“Ta-ta, darling!” Peter sang, mostly to add insult to injury at this point, as Juno pushed his bed out of the curtained cubicle he’d been sequestered in.

 

They traveled for about a minute in silence, Peter preoccupied by the ceiling tiles overhead—they lined up _so neatly_ and were of a color that simply _epitomized_ sterility—before Juno jerked the bed into a darkened and seemingly disused hallway. 

 

“Oh, my devious detective, I did devine you’d deduce my delight in detours.”

 

“Of _course_ your vocabulary would be even more ridiculous when you’re high,” Juno lamented softly to himself, stopping in the middle of what appeared to be an intersection with another disused hallway.

 

“Ridiculous only in its complete insufficiency at allowing me to express my enthrallment with your protean talents.”

 

“Oh my god, please stop talking.”

 

“Don’t worry,” came a voice to their right, causing Juno to utter an utterly adorable noise of surprise, “I’m catching this all on video.” A humanoid shape emerged from the shadows and walked towards them pushing a wheelchair.

 

“One day, that trick’ll grow really old,” Juno grumbled.

 

“Only after you loose that hair-trigger startle reflex, Steel. Now, come on, help me get him into the chair.”

 

“Vespa, dear, I’m not certain you are aware of this, but,” and Peter lowered his voice to a whisper so as not to embarrass her in the event she hadn’t caught on to this obvious fact: “this bed has wheels and is just as mobile as that chair.”

 

Vespa smiled at him indulgently—he had the feeling he was missing something here—and put her comms away. “Yeah,” she susurrated conspiratorially back, “but that bed doesn’t fit out _that_ door.” She pointed to the door at the end of the hall, illuminated only by the coccineous glow of the “Exit” sign above it.

 

Peter studied the door for a moment. “Well…”

 

“No,” cut in Juno, peeling his covers back. “We’re sticking to the plan so whatever you’re thinking, cut it out.”

 

Vespa smirked as she reached over to disconnect the plastic tubing from the IV in Peter’s forearm, leaving the intravenous line within Peter’s vein. “Oh, come on, Steel. Sometimes the best plans are improvised on the spot.”

 

“Yeah, and post-anesthesia drunkenness helps.” 

 

Peter, distracted by admiration at such artful sarcasm, belatedly deciphered Juno’s assertion. “Pardon me, but I am emphatically _not_ inebriated. I’m…” Peter wracked his brain for the perfect word, “…floating.”

 

“Yes, good job proving your point.” Juno grunted as he hefted Peter’s weight onto his shoulder as Vespa waited right beside him with the wheelchair, which was aimed to accept its incoming charge. Peter couldn’t help but cry out at the pain that flared across most of his body from the sudden shift in position, the pleasant numbness beating a hasty retreat from the onslaught of agony. 

 

He hadn’t noticed that his vision had whited out, but when he next became aware of his surroundings, he was outside, the chilly Dione air biting through the thin hospital gown. Juno, walking beside him, looked down with a worried countenance. 

 

“You with us?”

 

“Where else would I possibly be?” His right shoulder ached terribly and his legs were absolute torment in this more upright position. He swallowed back the bile pushing at his throat. “What are we doing?” he asked. The pain and cool air were doing wonders at clearing his mind but did so at the cost of his previous buoyant numbness and he wasn’t certain it was a tradeoff he appreciated. 

 

“There’s been a change in plan,” said Vespa, who was pushing his chair. “We’re gonna have to cut your hospital stay short.”

 

“That’s quite alright. To be honest, I wasn’t even aware that there was a plan.” Juno glanced over at him, the expression across his face too complex for Peter to decipher at that moment, but his preliminary assessment appended to it the label of “mournful humor.” That combination nagged at him: he was certain this meant something significant, that he was possibly forgetting a crucial detail, but at the moment he didn’t care to explore that possibility. 

 

“Yeah, that would be the anesthesia,” said Vespa dismissively. Then, after a pause, “Or possibly intra-operative brain damage.”

 

“Oh, dear. I know which one I vote for.”

 

“Anyway, we’ll catch you up after we get out of here,” said Vespa, wheeling him close to the Ruby7 and locking the chair’s wheels as Juno opened the back door. Peter braced himself but was still underprepared for the barrage of pain as Vespa and Juno lifted him into the backseat. 

 

With the knowledge that he was with two of his crewmates in the back of the best car in the galaxy, he didn’t fight the encroaching darkness of unconsciousness this time. 

 

————————————————————————————

 

When Peter next awoke, he was supine and his environment was dimly lit and quiet.

 

His mind was also much clearer than the last time he had awoken.

 

Unfortunately, this allowed him to be very aware of the discrete though concerted throbbing in his arm, legs, and torso. He let out a groan.

 

“Nureyev?” asked a voice softly from across the room. Peter, not daring to move for fear of exacerbating the pain, made a noise of assent. Unfortunately, it sounded more like a whimper than he liked.

 

He closed his eyes and focused on box-breathing, peripherally aware of Juno moving around the room. After about a minute, Juno was at his side and folding back the covers to expose Peter’s arm. “Here,” he said, keeping his voice low as he swabbed an alcohol wipe over the injection port of the IV still in his arm, “Vespa left you a present.” He twisted a syringe into the port and slowly depressed the plunger. “You’ll feel better in a minute.”

 

He pulled the covers back over Peter and went to dispose of the supplies as Peter returned to concentrating on his measured breathing. As promised, the pain soon began to fade. He felt the tension drain from his muscles and he relaxed into the bed. 

 

“Thank you.”

 

Juno, who’d returned to his chair at a small table near the window of…a motel room?…glanced at him briefly and then went back to looking out of the window. “Yeah, sure. Go back to sleep. Vespa and Buddy probably won’t be back until tomorrow morning.”

 

“Where’d they go?” Then, more a more salient question came to mind: “Why am I not in the hospital?”

 

“It’s…a long story.”

 

“The best kind.”

 

“Fine.” Then, mostly somber with just the subtlest hint of teasing, “You sure you’re actually going to remember this?”

 

“I’m afraid I don’t catch your meaning.”

 

“Exactly my point,” he said softly to himself. Turning more towards Peter, but not making eye contact, he said, “You remember why we’re on this god-forsaken rock, right?”

 

“Of course. We’re on Dione because they have some of the best orthopedic surgeons in the galaxy. Since the fractures I sustained were more complicated than Vespa initially thought and therefore failed the trial of bone sealant therapy, my only recourse was to undergo surgical fixation. Since I am no longer in the hospital, I assume something has gone awry?”

 

“Yeah. The Port Authority guy we paid off at the dock screwed us over. Jet and Rita had to take off before they got our ship. Vespa left a little bit ago to help Buddy get a ship for us so we can meet up with them.”

 

“Ah. I have to say, I’m disappointed.”

 

“Don’t worry,” Juno said, turning away from Peter and more towards the window, “She’ll be back eventually and I’ll be out of your hair.”

 

Peter sighed. “That’s not what I meant.” Juno remained silent. “I was referencing your assertion that the explanation for our current situation was going to be a long story.”

 

“Well, sorry to let you down.”

 

“Juno, it was meant in jest.”

 

“Sure. Fine. Whatever.”

 

“I guess it wasn’t the cleverest of jests,” Peter conceded, mostly as an olive branch.

 

“Nope.”

 

Peter shifted in bed slightly, trying to find a position to take some of the pressure off of his broken ribs without aggravating his…broken ribs. He sagged back into the mattress upon realization of this futility. It’d been a while since he’d had multiple broken bones and he forgot how painful even laying still could be. 

  
It didn’t help that his current situation with Juno didn’t make him feel any less fretful.

 

It had been less than two weeks since they destroyed McNeil’s space station and Peter had killed the man himself in cold blood and just over a week since he’d last been alone in the same room as Juno. 

 

He couldn’t help but recall just how poorly their last couple of conversations had gone. 

 

The enforced bedrest—with emphasis on “enforced”—which Vespa had prescribed after it became clear that the bone sealant had failed, had given him unwanted but admittedly needed time for introspection. 

 

He wasn’t a stranger to spending days inside his own head; years of solitary travel under various guises had made this a necessity for many reasons. However, during this period of bedrest, he realized that _Peter Nureyev_ had been mostly spared the scrutinizing, soul-searching introspection he subjected his other personas to. His identity was a transient thing, planned and perfected with the same attention to detail that Peter put into his choice of clothing and jewelry and shuffled off just as easily. The entity known as _Peter Nureyev_ was a myth at best and a discarded persona at worse, one he did not think he was ever likely to don again. 

 

Until he met Juno.

 

Until he met the first unmovable, steadfast _constant_ that he found himself unwilling to relinquish. An anchor that he _wanted_ to be held down by, even it if necessitated permanence. Even it if necessitated an identity stripped of its layers, a resurrection of _Peter Nureyev._

 

At first, he had relished this rebirth and reveled in having an identity for his own sake rather than as needed for a job or a con or for survival. He’d delighted in the ability to share who _he_ was with the person he found most mesmerizing, noble, flawed, and complex. 

 

Peter, who abandoned an identity as soon as it became more burden than benefit, found Juno’s struggles with and against his single identity inspiring.

 

Then, upon discovery of who Opus McNeil was and what he had created, one of the few remaining _permanents_ from his past reappeared. 

 

He hadn’t felt as gut-punched since waking to an empty bed in Hyperion City.

 

Coming face-to-face with the man who’d made a myth of _Peter Nureyev_ had brought out a _Peter Nureyev_ that was single-mindedly obsessed with killing McNeil no matter the cost and whose actions and thoughts felt so alien to Peter now.

 

So: _Who was Peter Nureyev?_

 

His inability to come up with an answer was just as painful as his injuries had been upon awakening. 

 

And the pain of the former was only worsened by the last few conversations-cum-arguments he’d had with Juno back on the ship. The Nureyev he wanted to be—and whom he’d successfully been until setting foot aboard McNeil’s space station—had been overshadowed by this new Nureyev, this vengeful, haughty, angry person who took Juno’s sincere efforts at remedying a mistake and seeking to understand Peter’s actions and emotions and flung them back with the same force and accuracy he threw his knives. 

 

The mandatory bedrest had given him the time and space needed to analyze this dichotomy.

 

However, the mandatory bedrest—and therefore, relative isolation—had made it impossible to seek Juno out. At the very least, he owed Juno a conversation that didn’t devolve into Juno suffering from the backlash of Peter’s internal upheaval. 

 

Now, he had a chance. And, if there was one thing that every iteration of _Peter Nureyev_ had in common, it was that they did not lack for forthrightness. Nor did they vacillate when opportunities presented.

 

“Juno…I believe I owe you an explanation.”

 

“Explanation?” Juno huffed in frustration, not turning away from the window. “Look, Nureyev, I get it. You were making a joke. Sorry I overreacted.”

 

“I’m not talking about my poor attempt at humor a moment ago.” He used his left arm to push himself upright and then to brace himself as the world swam for a moment and pain flared through his recently stabilized bones. This wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have lying down, pain be damned. 

 

His effort also had the added benefit of drawing Juno’s full attention. “For god’s sake, Nureyev, stop moving. Vespa’s gonna kill me if you re-break your bones.”

 

“That’s the beauty of surgical fixation,” Peter gasped, “They’re not likely to re-fracture while they heal.”

 

“Yeah, same goes for bone sealant yet you managed to debunk that fact with _all_ of your broken bones.”

 

Peter settled against the headboard and waited a moment for the pain to fade somewhat before replying. “Vespa believes that was due to a quirk of my physiology coupled with the complexity of the fractures. And anyway, surgical fixation is the gold standard for fracture alignment and healing.”

 

“You’re telling me that she didn’t think you being up and walking had anything to do with it,” Juno said, flatly. 

 

“…she thinks it _may_ have contributed. Though, she did concede the point that walking wouldn’t have caused the sealant to fail in my arm and shoulder.”

 

“Fine. Then by all means, act like a reckless idiot.” Juno started to turn away from Nureyev again. “Just know that your next dose of pain meds isn’t due for another two hours.”

 

“Juno, please.” Juno’s face was mostly turned away, but Peter was able to see the muscle in his jaw clench. “I would like to talk.”

 

“Fine. No one’s stopping you. If you’re looking for a conversation partner, though, you’re probably gonna be disappointed.”

 

“I suppose I deserve that.”

 

Juno remained silent.

 

“Juno, I lost control. It’s such a simple phrase—and the weakest possible excuse—and before arriving on McNeil’s space station, I had nothing but disdain for those who’d use it to pardon their actions. 

 

“I have spent my entire life maintaining ironclad control over my image, my various personas, my actions, my desires, my abilities. The one time I’d lost control…well, you saw that memory for yourself. It was a painful way to learn a valuable lesson and I’ve endeavored to never make that mistake again. And, I don’t believe it immodest to say that, for the past twenty or so years, I have done an admirable job.

 

“Even after meeting you, even during our time in Miasma’s captivity, even after I woke to an empty bed and an empty promise…I managed to stay in control.

 

“I’m not sure you can imagine what it felt like, to have met the man who was responsible for the _Guardian Angel System_ , to look him in the eye and force myself to remain stoic as he described his pride at designing such an _elegant_ and _effective_ system so early in his career, that it was this creation that brought him to prominence. And then, to force myself to laugh with him at the tiny flaw that allowed a couple of renegades to disarm it, that they’d then do something so _asinine_ as  to put the _goddamn thing back together.”_

 

He paused for a moment to breathe as deeply as his ribs would allow. He realized he was staring blankly at the blanket covering his legs. Slowly, the room came back into focus. He unclenched his hand from it’s viselike grip in the sheets. 

 

“There’s no excuse for what I did or how I reacted when you tried broach the topic with me after,” he said quietly. “I lost control and I was ashamed and I was selfish. But that’s not what I want to apologize for.” He looked up and was surprised to see that Juno was facing him fully, eye wide in apprehensive surprise. He forced himself to meet that eye. “Juno, I’m afraid that the man you know as Peter Nureyev may be yet another mask. And I am _so sorry_ for possibly deceiving you.”

 

“…what?” Juno breathed more than spoke. His eye remained fixed on Peter’s.

 

“The man I was after meeting McNeil, the man who was forced to face a phantom from his past—a past that belonged solely to _Peter_ Nureyev and not to any of the masks who came after—that man was unrecognizable to me. And, given the circumstances that brought him to life, I cannot but think that _that_ man is who _I_ am.

 

“So, Juno, you see? The man you met on Mars, the man you have allowed into your life…that man cannot possibly be real.”

 

“You’re saying…you misled me.”

 

Peter looked away. “I may have.”

 

“On purpose?”

 

“I hardly see how that’s relevant.”

 

“Then you’re an idiot.” Peter jerked his gaze back to Juno. Juno’s expression was serious but his eye was shining.

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

Juno shrugged. “It’s not ‘misleading’ if it wasn’t intentional. I’m surprised I’m having to give _you_ a vocabulary lesson.”

 

“Juno, you’re oversimplifying the matter.”

 

“Maybe. But I’m a pretty simple person. You’re worried that the person you’ve been wasn’t actually the real you? Welcome to the club.”

 

“I don’t follow.”

 

“You think a person’s personality, who they are, is a constant? That you know exactly how you’ll react to everything that happens? That you’ll be the same person to everybody you meet? Nureyev, that’s not even naive; that’s unrealistic.”

 

Peter opened his mouth to argue, but Juno cut him off and continued, “The problem with having a fake and temporary identity is that you _have_ that control over every nuance of their personality. You can control everything from how they react to circumstances and how they interact with their mark to what their favorite color is. And, I guess that fake identity acts like a shield and keeps things from affecting _you._ Well, guess what? Who _you_ are? At your core? It’s messy, it’s volatile, and there’s no possible way to control how things will affect _you_.”

 

“I’m not sure I understand.”

 

Juno huffed out a breath ran his hand through his hair. “Peter, the man I’ve lived with for the past few weeks is no less Peter Nureyev than the man who nearly blew himself up in order to kill a maniac responsible for thousands of deaths. Those two Nureyevs may seem irreconcilable to you, but…” Juno shrugged. “It’s one of the ironies of life. Trust me, I know this from first-hand experience.”

 

“How can you be so sure?”

 

“That life is messy and no person is constant? I’m pretty much living proof.”

 

“No, how can you be so certain of who _I_ am? How can you trust me so thoroughly?”

 

“Because…I’ve seen _you_ through _your_ eyes _._ And…you trusted _me_ with those memories.”

 

Peter sagged against the headboard. “Juno, I have no idea how you can be simultaneously so uncomplicated yet perspicacious.”

 

“Heh. Buddy said the same thing.”

 

The lapsed into silence for a few moments, each absorbed in his own thoughts.

 

“So…you’re out as Peter Nureyev now, huh?” Juno eventually asked.

 

“Yes, whomever he ends up being.” Then, sensing Juno’s implicit question, he continued, “I have spent my life hiding behind mayfly identities and, where once that was out of necessity, I came to the conclusion that now it may be handicapping me.”

 

“Yeah, well, like I said, it’s not as easy as it sounds.”

 

Peter hummed in agreement. “No, it certainly hasn’t been.”

 

“And…where does that leave us?” 

 

Peter’s heart broke slightly at the soft hesitance in those words and the insecurity in Juno’s tone. “Juno, I’m afraid that’s mostly up to you. I acted absolutely atrociously towards you these past two weeks.”

 

“Yeah, but I’m pretty sure me pushing you to talk about your past didn’t help.”

 

“No, it didn’t, but I do see now that it was necessary. I was a coward, Juno. I was running away from the truths you were trying to help me uncover. I see that now. Just as I see that you are attempting to take on blame that is not yours to bear.”

 

A pause, and then, softly, “I thought it was over, Nureyev.” Juno cleared his throat and then clarified, “I thought _we_ were done.”

 

The words, soft though they were and barely audible, hit Nureyev with almost physical force. “Oh.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Peter felt numb. He hadn’t even considered this possibility or that his actions would have led Juno to consider it either. However, in retrospect, it was a perfectly reasonable conclusion to come to. “I…can see how you would have thought that.” He ignored the urge to apologize again, to insist that Juno was mistaken, that their relationship had the potential to be the stronger for all this.

 

The thought of using his words, as cheap as the air used to utter them, to influence Juno made him feel nauseated. He might not be sure _who_ Peter Nureyev was, but he refused to be a person who’d use easy apologies to mitigate the damage that he’d done. 

 

“I was terrified. I had no idea what was going on in your head and any attempt I made to figure it out just seemed to make the problem worse.”

 

Peter remained silent, completely at loss for words. 

 

“You know, I ended up doing pretty much the same thing to Rita and Jet,” Juno mused, mostly to himself. “I was miserable, they were trying to help, I lashed out.” He dropped his face into his hands. “God, I’m so fucking bad at this.”

 

“On the contrary, Juno, I find you admirable.” Juno lifted his head from his hands and looked at Peter skeptically. “I have never met anyone so tenacious in their efforts to do good, even when it costs them so much to do so. It’s a selflessness that I could never hope to achieve.”

 

“Nureyev—“

 

“No, please. I need to say this. You accused me of not being open and honest with you and you were right. I hid my plan to kill McNeil from you and then, after, my motivation for doing so. I suspected that if you had known my plan you would have done everything possible to keep me from success. Or—and, Juno, please realize that this was the absolute worst case scenario—you would have sacrificed your principles to help me and I would have been guilty of dragging you down to an unforgivably base level. As for why I hid my motivation? After I had woken up in Vespa’s infirmary and realized I had, against all odds, survived, the reasons for my actions on the station appeared quite petty, even to me.

 

“In short, Juno, I was ashamed. I felt lost and adrift and very, very confused.” Peter forced himself to look at Juno. “So, though egregiously belated, I hope this answers your question  from over a week ago as to why I acted as I did. And why I have always admired you so.”

 

Juno was quiet for a long moment. “And did you mean it when you said you were okay with dying as long as it meant that McNeil went with you.”

 

“Yes. I was honest about that.”

 

Juno made a noise of distress.

 

“I don’t expect you to understand. If I examine this certainty too closely, I’m not sure I do either. You were right, however bluntly you phrased it: I did kill Mag. However—“ Peter paused, took a shuddery breath, and then continued before he could think better of it, “The _Guardian Angel System_ very likely killed my real father. I lost my name when I killed Mag. I lost everything _except_ my name when my father was killed.”

 

Peter didn’t think he could explain the visceral—and therefore foreign—compulsion that made any plan that involved McNeil escaping alive inconceivable. It was illogical and it led to more pain and suffering than perhaps allowing McNeil to escape alive would have. But, even here, in bed incapacitated by serious injuries and in a room with the man he loved hurt and angry with him—quite possibly to the detriment of their relationship—he was certain he would follow the compulsion to do so again if given the chance.

 

However, Juno was looking at him with a look of sad…understanding? “Peter, I’m sorry. I hadn’t considered…”

 

Peter waved his uninjured arm dismissively. “It’s a poor excuse. For what it’s worth, though, I am very happy to be alive.”

 

“Yeah, I am, too. Just…don’t do it again? Or at least, don’t shut me out?”

 

“Juno,” said Peter solemnly, “That is a promise I will do my utmost to live up to.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

They sat in comfortable silence and for the first time since Peter awoke in this room, he felt some of the tension drain from his body. 

 

“You know, the one good thing that came from all of this?” Juno asked, voice light and laced with a subtle edge of humor.

 

“What’s that?”

 

“I got to see you under the after-effects of anesthesia.”

 

Peter groaned and covered his face with his hand. 

 

“I should have expected you’d be a talkative drunk.”

 

“Oh god. Was I? I have no idea what I said.”

 

“Yeah, I’m not exactly sure either. Figures your vocabulary would get more ridiculous when you’re under the influence.” Peter peeked between his fingers and saw that the tension in Juno’s posture had eased somewhat as well and his half-smile was relaxed. “But I think Vespa got some of it on video and I’m pretty sure we have a dictionary back on the ship, so…”

 

Peter continued his efforts to completely hide his face in one hand. 

 

“Are you usually that much of a light-weight with anesthesia or did we just get incredibly lucky?”

 

“I’m not sure, to be honest. I’ve never had surgery under general anesthesia before.”

 

“What?” Juno’s brow rose in disbelief, “You’re telling me that you’ve never had surgery? In _your_ line of work?”

 

“No. I’m telling you I’ve never had general anesthesia before this.”

 

“Wait, you mean—“

 

“Yes. And it’s very unpleasant. It’s also a large part of why I usually go to great lengths to avoid becoming injured.”

 

“Huh. So why did you agree to undergo it now?”

 

“Why? Because the for the first time in my life, I have surrounded myself with people I trust to watch over me when I’m at my most vulnerable.”

 

Juno looked shocked. “Oh.”

 

“Though, given how it affected me, I suppose I’ll resume my previous practice of ensuring I escape our various jobs as unscathed as possible.”

 

“Good,” Juno agreed, firmly. “Though full disclosure: I’m firmly in the pro-anesthesia camp if it comes to it.”

 

Peter couldn’t help but let out a hearty laugh, feeling lighter than he had in days. Unfortunately, he was quickly grounded by a surge of pain flaring across his chest. 

 

“Nureyev?” Juno asked concernedly, half risen from his chair.

 

“I’m fine. Just…caught me by surprise is all.” Now that the adrenaline was fading, his various aches were making themselves known. He shifted slightly in preparation to lower himself back into his previous supine position only to have the pain intensify further. “I…may have overdone it,” he admitted. 

 

Juno stood up and walked over. “God, Vespa is gonna _kill_ me.”

 

“Don’t worry. She’ll probably go after me first, so you should have time to escape.”

 

“I think you’re grossly underestimating her abilities, Nureyev. And her rage. Now stop moving so much and let me help you,” Juno said, perching his hip onto the bed to better position himself to help. Peter wasn’t certain, but there may have been an undercurrent of affection threaded through the exasperated tone.

 

They finally got Peter settled into the mostly-recumbent position that seemed to take the most pressure off his ribs and shoulder. He sighed in relief while Juno, rather than retreat back to his chair at the window, wordlessly scooted back until he was sitting upright against the headboard. 

 

They sat like that for some time. Laying still, the pain started to fade and Peter relaxed further, unable to help the sigh of content that escaped his lips as he felt sleep pull at him. 

 

“You know,” Juno said softly just as Peter let the last vestiges of consciousness fade away, “I’m glad it didn’t take another period of captivity for us to talk about things.”

 

Peter let out a soft laugh. “I suppose we are getting better at this.”

 

Then, on the notes of Juno’s huff of amusement, Peter succumbed to restful slumber. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings:  
> —Identity issues/conflict  
> —Post-procedural amnesia  
> —Brief and nondescript allusion to surgery without general anesthesia
> 
> No thesauruses were harmed in the making of this fi—yeah, actually, no that’s a lie. It took SO MUCH thesaurus abuse to write that first part, y’all! God, that was probably the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever written and I cannot physically read that section without covering my mouth in abject embarrassment (don't worry, the good kind). 
> 
> Anyway, I left these guys in quite the state at the end of Acciaccato and I really hope this resolution of sorts does that justice. 
> 
> Let me know what you think!
> 
> And/or! Come shout obscure, ridiculous words at me on tumblr @frostandcrow!


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